the conqueror / aegon I
The air was thick with desperation and ash. Blank faces, worshipful faces, what used to be faces, all stared at him as he passed. He began with the intent on looking at them all, making sure that he saw them and they saw him and they saw him see them, but there were too many. Half way through, the guilt that sat on his chest made him turn away. He started looking at the blood then, and the fire. Those were familiar, those he could look at and feel like a conqueror.
This is all me, he thinks, every bit of it. He was the one who first thought the idea. He was the one who commissioned the table and studied it night after night. He was the one who turned down the chance to regain the empire of his people's past. He was the one that chose west. I am the one that has come to kill you and rule you. Bend the knee and rejoice in it.
His soul is covered in black dragon scales and barely healed wounds, and it looks out across the field where what were men lie dead and dying, and it screams victory. Aegon the man looks across the field of his doing, and can only feel the weight on his chest.
